My Brother's Keeper
by I 4 2 write
Summary: A retelling of A Christmas Carol. One Christmas Eve, the spirit of Mycroft's old friend Alistair tells him he will have three visitors who will show him the error of his ways. If he doesn't change, tragedy will strike. Influenced by the Alistair Sims version, although I chose the name just because it's old English. Warning for dark moments and implied slash
1. Chapter 1

"Why are you even asking me, brother? You know I despise Christmas. Especially after last year. I ended up nearly sending you on a suicide mission after you blew a man's brains out in front of witnesses." For some reason even Mycroft couldn't see, Sherlock wanted him to come to their parents for Christmas.

"First off," Sherlock said with barely controlled frustration. "It isn't a suicide mission if the person is forced to go. And the alternative would have been letting him use me to control you, as if I mattered enough for you to give in to him. He'd have let Mary's enemies know where she is. She'd have been killed, and the baby too. John would almost certainly have died protecting them."

"So you were willing to sacrifice everything for them? I've told you repeatedly that caring is not an advantage."

"My friendship with John Watson was the making of me," Sherlock insisted.

"The ruin of you, you mean. It made you go soft, and almost got you killed."

"So much for my loss would break your heart. John would have done the same for me. And I've learned something I hope you will someday. Caring and being cared about is an advantage, a very large one. If John didn't care about me, I'd be dead now. And if I hadn't cared enough about him to jump, Moriarty's snipers would have killed him. If Gilbert hadn't cared to give me work so I'd keep clean I might have overdosed by now. With my history with landlords, if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson I'd probably be homeless."

"Oh stop being so overdramatic! You'd have jumped regardless to defeat Moriarty, even with your fear of heights." Sherlock had fallen from a horse as a young child, and although me managed to get the resulting fear enough to cope, jumping was not something he'd been happy about. "As to getting clean, I would have had you committed to rehab before much longer. And do you really believe Mother and Father would let you die on the streets? You lived as a homeless man during your gap year even though they protested and you were fine."

"You're missing the point entirely. If you won't come for my sake, at least do it for our parents."

"Why are you even asking? You've never enjoyed my company. I hate Christmas. If you're planning on drugging everyone again someone has to remain alert. Better for everyone if I stay away."

"Maybe I'm asking because I'm trying to actually set things right between us. I've done my part towards that. You were the one that said the feud between us is childish and that people would suffer, but if you're not willing to try, maybe you should just stay away." By this point Sherlock was too angry to argue, and left with the door slamming behind him.

The door of Mycroft's office remained closed until it was almost time to go home. Anthea came in, a hopeful look on her face.

"Sir? I was hoping I could take some time away. It is Christmas, after all."

"Government work does not stop for Christmas. You know that. Every year you ask for time off and every year I tell you the same thing."

Her face fell, but she nodded and stepped back out.

Mycroft spent the rest of the evening that Christmas Eve enjoying a meal and reading before bed. Christmas Eve alone, the way it always was and exactly how he liked it. It was just another day. There were no carols playing, no fairy lights, and there was certainly no tree. His meal was professionally prepared, but nothing traditional for the season. It could just as easily have been August as December if it wasn't cold outside.

He was feeling a bit drowsy, nodding over his book. He was just about to put it away and go to sleep when he heard something from outside. Christmas carols? Yet it didn't sound like carolers. For one thing, there was an unearthly beauty to it, if Mycroft acknowledged things like beauty. For another thing, it seemed to be coming from right outside the window. That is to say, directly outside, not in the street. That window was on the second floor, and it had no balcony.

Mycroft would have gotten up to see what was causing the music, and why his security team had let whoever was behind it get so close, but soon there was no need. A strange light that somehow seemed to be made of every Christmas light that had ever been lit shone brightly and came into the room through the same window as the music. The carols faded out, and the figure of a man became through the lights.

"Alistair?"

The man's face was one Mycroft hadn't seen since he'd left uni. The closeness they had once shared was all but forgotten. It had been a long time since Mycroft had even spared a thought for him. He had heard Alistair had died, but he hadn't wanted the details. He was surprised at the feelings stirred when he heard the news, and did not want to feel anything close to caring. He was hallucinating. There was no doubt of that. Or more likely dreaming. There was nothing to cause a hallucination. The hallucination, dream, or whatever it was nodded.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"If you are who you appear to be, you'd know how I feel about Christmas."

"That doesn't mean I can't wish you a Merry Christmas. As to how you feel about this season, I'm hoping to change that tonight. Myself and three others I should say."

"And what does it matter how I feel about Christmas? I'm far from the only person who doesn't celebrate it."

Alistair looked at him sadly. "You're missing so much, Mycroft, and you're heading down a path you'll regret."

"What I'm regretting is even bothering to talk to an illusion."

"I don't know how to convince you I'm really who I say I am. I could tell you about the ring you still wear, or things we've said."

"Of course a figment of my imagination would know personal details about me."

"I knew you would say that," he sighed. "Mycroft, I'm trying to help you."

"You always were a sentimental idiot, if you really are you. If you cared so much we wouldn't have parted on the terms we did."

"I told you the decision was yours."

"So why interfere now?"

"Because you're lonely and hurting, and you'll only be hurting worse if things don't change. I tried to help you when I was alive."

"Gave up on me, you mean."

The apparition shook his head. "You chose what happened, and if your heart were completely frozen it wouldn't still bother you."

"I never said that it did."

"Mycroft listen. I can't stay here long, but three others will visit you tonight. The first will come when the clock strokes one. Listen to their warnings. If you don't, you'll be in more pain than you can imagine. You can find what you need to change inside yourself. I know you can. Goodbye."

Before Mycroft could answer, the spirit vanished.


	2. Ghost of Christmas Past

Trigger warning and implied slash in this chapter

Mycroft shook his head and tried to dismiss the vision. He must have fallen asleep with the lights on and been dreaming. Of course he'd been dreaming. There was no such thing as an afterlife, and certainly no such thing as a ghost. He turned out the light, but the vision kept him from falling asleep. His mind was never a quiet place, and it was especially active now. The next thing he knew the clock was striking. It was one.

He was sure every light in the house was off, but through closed eye lids he saw that a light was on. Or something was glowing. He fully opened his eyes, and saw a glowing figure in white. A light like a candle flame flickered above his head. He looked old, yet somehow ageless.

"Who and what are you?" Mycroft asked.

"I am the ghost of Christmas past," the stranger answered.

"Long past?"

"No, your past."

"My past?" Mycroft laughed. "I know my past well enough. What in my past is supposed to convince me to start loving Christmas?"

"Rise, come with me, and you will find out."

With a wave of the spirit's hand, the window opened.

"You are not serious?"

"Are you afraid?"

"No, but I'm not stupid either. I'm still not convinced spirits exist, but I am mortal, and would fall."

"You only have to take my hand, and you will be upheld in more ways than this."

Curiosity won out over fear. If this spirit or whatever he was meant to harm him, he could easily have done so by now. If it was a dream, he would wake up, and he was sure by now that no drugs had entered his system. He did as the spirit asked, and suddenly it seemed as if he was **flying** through the air. Yet his location was not the only thing that changed. Traveling as they were, he couldn't see that until they arrived at their destination.

"My parents' home?"

The spirit nodded, and Mycroft followed him into the living room. Little Sherlock, or William as he'd been known then, would have been three years old. He was busy coloring a picture of a sleigh. He'd never shown any special interest in art, but he was decent at drawing thanks to his eye for detail. Of course as such a young child he had no money for gifts, too young even for an allowance. Still, he was determined to make something for his brother for Christmas. He proudly folded it the way a card should be. He added his initials and set it under the tree with the other gifts.

"That's beautiful William," his mother praised him.

"It's for Mycroft. I wanted him to have it, and what Father Christmas gives him."

Mycroft's ten year old self was sampling a Christmas cookie, and looked withdisapproval at his little brother.

"You actually believe reindeer can fly and pull a sleigh around the world all in one night? Do you have any idea how long it would take to do that even if reindeer could fly?"

"Mycroft!" both his parents shouted.

"What? What good comes from teaching him a silly legend people have to learn isn't true later anyway?"

The younger child looked crushed, but then smiled and ran up to his room. He came back a moment later holding a model ship.

"Here Mycroft.."

"What's this for?"

"It's still Christmas. You won't like the picture if there's no Father Christmas, but this is a nice ship. You'll like that, right?"

The older Mycroft hadn't thought of it as important enough to remember. Now, seeing the event happen again, it took on a new significance.

"That ship was his favorite thing in the world. He was more concerned about me having a good Christmas than what he believed in being taken away," Mycroft said, surprised himself at the feelings that caused. "I remember what a good Christmas that really was. I told him he could keep the ship, and we ended up playing pirates until time for bed. I didn't really just play with him that often. I suppose most brothers do play more." He smiled. "I ended up giving him a toy sword I hadn't played with in years. He didn't know I had it before that Christmas."

"He counted an extra gift that Christmas morning, and his belief in Christmas magic was restored," the spirit already knew the end of the story. "At least for a little longer. Why would you do that when belief in anything is so silly?**"**

"It just made him happy, why do you think I did it?" He chuckled. "I think that's what made him love pirates so much." Then the smile on his face faded. "I haven't done anything just to make him happy for a long time. Or anyone else."

He dwelt on that a moment before the spirit told him to come. Come how he wasn't sure. They didn't exactly go anywhere as far as walking or traveling. The next thing Mycroft knew they were at his boarding school. It must have been six years later. He was in the school's library, another boy beside him.

"Alistair," he said quietly. "I stayed at school that Christmas to study, and he stayed with me. I think he would have gone anywhere or done anything I asked."

"Mycroft, it's Christmas. I think we can take a short break to just enjoy the holiday," his friend told the younger him.

"But exams are next month!"

"And I don't think there's a single word in any of our books that you haven't memorized. There hasn't been even one year you haven't been the best in the school. Look, there's a nice fire going, and I've brought something." He pulled out a bag of marshmallows.

"I shouldn't. I've been trying to lose weight again."

"You know, you shouldn't worry so much about what people think of you."

"I never said it's because of what people think."

"You didn't have to. Now come on, let's do something together. If you'd rather not have a snack, let's enjoy the snow. We can go skating."

"I never did enjoy any physical activity," the older Mycroft said. 'Still, that wasn't so bad."

"Why not?" the spirit asked.

"We were together."

The spirit and the older Mycroft followed the two schoolboys to the skating rink, and watched them. Mycroft at that age was not as overweight as he'd been as a younger boy, but he was out of shape and not used to skates. Alistair had more experience and was thinner, so he had less trouble staying balanced. The whole time, he never let Mycroft fall once.

"Our relationship was different than Sherlock and John's, but we were just as devoted to each other, once," Mycroft said wistfully. He wondered for a moment what he would have done if anyone had threatened his companion, the way Moriarty and Magnussen had John and his family. In the back of his mind, a little voice told him the answer. Anything. He would have done anything to keep him safe. For a moment, he felt his heart soften before he hardened it again.

"I don't know why he mattered so much."

No sooner had he said the words than he saw the younger him start to topple over. Immediately Alistair helped him steady himself. In reaching for Mycroft and keeping him on his feet, the other boy lost his own balance, falling hard. He laid stillfor a moment, but once he found his breath the first words out of his mouth were "Are you all right Myc?"

Oh yes. Now he remembered why Alistair had mattered so much. He winced hearing his younger self answer.

"Of course I'm all right you idiot. You're the one who fell."

"I didn't mean that how it sounded!" Mycroft hurried to tell the spirit.

"Did he know that?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He wasn't actually sure.

The scene faded, another taking its place. He was in a morgue. This Christmas was more recent. It was the one where Irene Adler had faked her death. He held out a cigarette to Sherlock. He remembered the conversation they'd had, and he heard himself say again. "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

"If you do not care, why did you offer him the cigarette to see if it was a danger night?"

"I said it's not an advantage. I never said I didn't care about him."

"Didn't you?"

One last scene change, to the Christmas just the year before. The older him was in a helicopter. He heard himself shout.

"Do not fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!"

"You ordered his death yourself."

"No I didn't!" The older Mycroft argued. "I'd have come up with something. I was trying to buy time!"

"You never told him that though did you? Just like you never told someone else something they needed to hear."

Once again one scene took the place of another. He was in an older home, Alistair in front of him again, curled up on a couch. He was too still, and Mycroft saw a bottle of pills on the table. The implication was all too obvious.

"He wouldn't have! He was the most cheerful person I knew. Alistair please tell me you weren't that stupid!"

He knew it was too late. He'd already seen Alistair's ghost. Yet he tried to shake his friend awake, to undo what had been done. His hands went right through him.

"This is only a shadow of what has happened. There is no power we have to change it."

For the first time in years, Mycroft broke down in a sob.

'But I could have changed it! I could have been there! Spirit, say this wasn't only because of me!"

"Alistair faced a life time of prejudice bravely, but constant friction can wear even an iron rod into a needle. In the end, he'd had enough, and couldn't see the point of enduring more pain. Why should he?"

"Because he mattered! He mattered so much!"

The spirit faded away throwing Mycroft's words back at him.

"So what? All lives end. All hearts are broken."

Hearing his own words used against him made Mycroft fall to his knees.

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	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft's eyes had been closed in grief, and when he opened them again he found himself back in his own room. He was not being left alone, however. The bedroom door was closed, but he saw a light shining under it. He opened the door and stepped into the living room. There was not a spare inch of it that wasn't decorated. Lights and garland covered every available surface. Wreaths were hung as well.

A large fire was burning in the fireplace, making the room glow cheerfully, and a perfectly decorated tree was in the corner, filling the room with the smell of pine. Another fragrance was added by a lfeast that had been spread out, far surpassing anything Mycroft had seen even at the most elaborate official Christmas Card scene was ever more festive. In Mycroft's favorite chair sat a bearded figure with brown curly hair. He wore a fur-lined green robe and on his head sat a holly wreath with shining icicles. He called to him.

"Come in, come in, and know me better, man. You've never seen the likes of me before, have you?"

"Never," Mycroft answered. "And I wish the pleasure had been entirely postponed."

"So, you still remain unmoved and choose not to let your heart be thawed? You refuse to learn the value of caring?"

"If I never cared about Alistair, it wouldn't hurt so much to know his death could have been prevented, that he committed-" the word stuck on his throat. "Caring means pain. It interferes with thinking. I'm better off the way I am."

"So you have believed for far too long. Come. You value learning. You have much to learn tonight, and it is time your lesson started."

The spirit held out an arm. Mycroft knew there was no alternative but to take it. As he did, they were transported to a place Mycroft knew very well.

"Baker Street? What am I supposed to see here that I don't already know? I know my brother's home. I even have as many security cameras in place as I can keep him from finding."

They stepped through the door without it opening as Mycroft spoke.

"Look at your brother, Mycroft. You see everything about everyone, but you have not yet seen what caring has done for him."

It was true. Sherlock's flat was filled with as many people as it could hold. The Watsons were there, as much Sherlock's family as his own parents and perhaps more than Mycroft himself. Their daughter had been named Sheryl after him. Mrs. Hudon, Lestrade, Molly, and even Anderson were there. Also included in the group was Bill Wiggins, as if Mycroft ever wanted to see the young addict who had drugged everyone the past Christmas. Mycroft was a bit surprised to see he'd been clean for four- no five months.

"Your brother has helped Wiggins, seeing in him who he once was."

"He's been helping him go back to school," Mycroft deduced. :And he is no longer homeless."

"Soon, Wiggins will be working with Anderson on the forensics team at Scotland Yard. Because your brother opened his heart, a young man is on the right path."

"I suppose this benefits Sherlock by having someone competent on the team."

"You truly can not see that it is more than that?"

Mycroft didn't answer, simply observing the crowd. Music was playing on the radio, and John turned to Mary.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance, Mrs. Watson?"

Mary grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

The two started spinning around as Sheryl toddled over to Sherlock.

"Up, 'cle Lock?" she asked, tugging on his leg. Not so long ago no one would have believed it, but Sherlock picked up the little girl and held her as he danced around the floor. Anyone could see he loved the child just as much as John and Mary did. For the first time Mycroft saw what he had missed as the song ended and Sherlock traded dance partners, taking a turn with Molly. Sherlock was the happiest he'd ever been. He would never care about the earth going around the sun. For him, the earth revolved around these people he had let himself love. So much happiness filled the room that for a moment Mycroft longed to be part of it.

The song ended, and everyone talked among themselves. Molly squeezed Sherlock's hand. She'd always been able to read him almost as well as he could read others. That was even more true now that they'd grown closer and he let her in more often.

"It's because of Mycroft isn't it?" she asked as she saw the hint of sorrow on his face. "You couldn't get him to come with you tomorrow?"Mycroft felt a twinge of guilt as Sherlock answered.

"No, but I never really believed he would. He never wants anything to do with anyone and he thinks he's so above everyone else that it doesn't pay for him to-" he stopped. "Oh God I'm describing myself."

Molly laughed. "No. You learned. You started to care about others for more than just how they could help you with a case, and now I can tell you really care about solving crimes to save people, not just show off. You should have seen your face when you found those two kidnapping victims alive last month."

"I was just happy to have solved it. It was a very interesting puzzle." Molly smiled and shook her head. Sherlock laughed. "Fine, I'll admit it. It felt good to see them safe and with their families."

"See? You learned to care. Someday maybe he will too."

Sherlock shook his head. "This is Mycroft we're talking about, the same man who used to tell me the east wind was coming to take me away and told me constantly how it's wrong to care. I shouldn't even have asked him. There's no real point in asking him anything." There was a strain on the last word.

Mycroft knew Sherlock couldn't hear him, but the words came anyway.

"Anything? I'd help you if you really needed something. It was just silly to want me to come for Christmas."

"You won't help him with the little things. Why would you help him when it's truly important?"

"He's my brother."

"And is family truly that important to you?"

Before he could answer, he was transported to his parents home. His mother was in the kitchen, taking mince pies out of the over. Mince pie had always been Mycroft's favorite. He saw his mother look at the pies sadly, and set them aside. His father came into the room and put his arms around her.

"Sherlock tried. Maybe he can convince Mycroft to come next year."

His mother shook her head. "No. Sherlock has- well he's become warmer and kinder, like he used to be when he was little. Mycroft just keeps getting colder and farther away. I don't know how to call him back."

Mycroft watched as his father held his mother closer, There was actually a tear on his mother's face.

"I haven't really hurt them so badly have I?"

He could see the answer in their faces. Yes, he had.

As soon as he realized that, he was shown another home. Anthea was setting in a chair near her tree, talking on the phone.

"I'm sorry, Mom. You know how he is. He doesn't even think of Christmas as different from any other day. Maybe he'll let me after the holidays. What did the doctor say?"Anthea's voice was trembling, and her eyes has an emptyness.

"Doctor? Spirit? What is wrong with her mother?"

"She has a neurological disorder. Month by month, it becomes harder for her to care for herself."

"She will end up in a care center." Mycroft could guess what would happen, and stories of the horrors the elderly and infirm suffered in such places were common. Thinking of that so soon after seeing his own mother's sorrow made him understand how Anthea must feel. Yes he had always denied he cared about anyone, but he would never let a family member end up in such a place.

"Just one more goldfish," The spirit told him. "She hardly matters, does she?"

With that Mycroft was left outside alone, waiting for the last spirit and filled with shame.

Author note: A special thank you to PSay for the reviews and to my best friend for proof reading


	4. Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come

The night had turned much colder, and a mist started to form. It was no ordinary fog, and took the shape of a hooded, faceless figure. Mycroft felt a terror beyond terrors, although he knew the spirits would not physically harm him. After what he had seen so far, and remembering Alistair's warning, he knew he wouldn't like what he was going to see. He braced himself, telling himself this couldn't be real.

"You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" The spirit did not speak, or even nod. "And you are going to show me what will happen if things do not change? Since I appear to be in your control, lead on. We may as well get this over with."

Instantly they were surrounded by a fog too thick to see through. When it cleared, they were in a small wooden house that had been standing for too many years. Sherlock, John, Mary, and Sheryl were there, yet although it must be Christmas, there was no party. The four of them looked more like hunted animals than people. Sherlock, always so stoic, looked even more lost than when he'd shot Magnussen. John had his head burried in his hands, and Mary had tear tracks on her face. Sheryl was clinging to each of them in turn, although she was the only one without fear in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry John," Mary sobbed. "I tried to leave that life behind. All I wanted for so long, even before I met you, was to just pretend that life was a nightmare. I should never have married you. Now I've put you, our daughter, and Sherlock all in danger."

John held her and let her bury her face in him.

"It isn't your fault they found you. And I told you. The problems of your past are your buisness. The problems of your future are my privilege."

"But now my past could cost all of us our futures."

"Mummy, why are you afraid? Daddy and Uncle Sherlock would never let us be hurt." The child had complete faith in her loved ones. Sherlock hugged her as he answered.

"Your daughter is smarter than the both of you put together. Didn't I promise you I would always protect the three of you? I've never broken that promise yet have I?"

"He's planning something," Mycroft realized. "He's going to do something insane to try to keep them safe."

"You're sure Mycroft is arranging to smuggle us somewhere?" John asked.

"Yes. We just have to hold up here a little longer." Mycroft could see it in his eyes. Sherlock had never even asked him for help. Had their already broken relationship shattered that much? "His agents are looking for them right now, besides." He looked at Sheryl. "You must be cold. Let me build up the fire."

"Do you really think that's safe?" Mary asked. "Someone could see the smoke." Mycroft grew more fearful. That was not the kind of mistake Sherlock would ever make, especially not with the Watsons' lives on the line.

"Relax, Mary. If I wasn't absolutely sure it was safe, I wouldn't risk it, would I?" He added more would to the fire, and a small packet of something else no one but Mycroft and the Spirit saw. Smoke started curling out from it.

"I'm just going to step outside a moment," he told the others. Apparently it wasn't unusual for him to do so.

"I'm going with you!" Sheryl announced. Sherlock picked her up.

"No, you have to do something very important for me. I need you to keep your Mummy and Daddy safe. Although, maybe you're too young for that." Sherlock knew there was no better way to get a child to do something than to claim they were too young.

"No I'm not! You'll see. I won't let them get hurt."

Sherlock smiled. "All right. I'll trust you. I'll be back soon."

He didn't go far. He walked a ways away from the house before coming back. He left the door wide open, and then opened each window to let the cloud of smoke out. The Watsons were unharmed of course, but they would not wake up for a while. Sherlock checked their breathing and laid a gun by John and Mary's hands, leaving himself unarmed. He walked towards the door and looked back.

"The last Christmas gift I can give you. I just hope it's enough."

"Don't do anything stupid brother," Mycroft pleaded, but even if Sherlock could have heard him it wouldn't have mattered.

He started up a path towards a waterfall alone. Mycroft recognized it at once. It was the Reichenbach falls, the scene from the painting Sherlock had recovered years ago, in the case that had made him famous. If there was any doubt in his mind that Sherlock might survive this, that removed it. The universe was rarely so lazy that it would allow coincidences.

"Spirit, before we go farther, are these the shadows of things that will be, or only things that might be?" The spirit still did not say a word. "I know that men's deeds cause certain results, but if the deeds change surely the results change too?" The only reply was a nameless force driving him forward.

Sherlock and a figure Mycroft could see was a foreign secret agent faced each other when they reached a very narrow part of the walkway. The two spoke in Serbian, which Mycroft understood easily thanks to having to get his brother out of there before.

"So, you have decided to defend that murderer."

"She has a husband and child now. A new name, a new life. She is not the same person. Leave her and her family. Killing them won't bring your brother back. He killed others, far more than she did. If she hadn't killed him, it would have been someone else who did. You have nothing to gain, and if you harm any of them you have everything to lose," Sherlock warned him.

"That is a fool talking. You have no gun, and I do."

"But they both have guns since I left mine. They are both excellent shots. They would be able to take you down, if I let you get that close to them."

The Serbian laughed. "You are no threat to me."

Mycroft saw him pull a gun, and whether this was an illusion or not, he couldn't let this happen. He tried to get in the path of the bullet, but it passed strait through him. It wasn't an immediate kill. Sherlock still had the strength to use the Ironic that defense moves he knew. The Serbian was thrown from the narrow path as Sherlock collapsed against the rock wall. If he could have heard him, he would have known Mycroft was screaming at the top of his lungs. If he could have felt him, he'd have known Mycroft was trying to hold him.

"Sherlock you've been shot before and you've made it! You can do it again this time!"

He continued to shout encouragements as Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock had just enough strength to answer the phone. Mycroft could hear John's voice, still groggy but alert enough to know something was wrong. The shot would have been easily heard yet at this distance.

"Sherlock where the hell are you?" He must have made out the sound of the water. "The falls?"

"Looks like Richard Brook will be part of my last case after all, John. I don't think I ever told you Rich Brook is English for Reichenbach did I? Ironic that it would end with me here. Remember when I found the painting of this place?"

"Shut up, Sherlock, just shut up! You're not going to put me through this again. You're not going to die. Just hold on. We're coming."

Mycroft held his breath, hoping John would make it on time, but Sherlock had already given up. No, he had accepted the inevitable.

"John, take Mary and Sheryl and go. You won't make it in time. Given the estimated rate of blood loss and slowing of my pulse I estimate that I have-"

"I don't want to know Sherlock because I'm not letting that happen! You've made it through being shot before and you weren't even responsive then. You're the most stubborn person I know. You're not one to just lie down and die."

"For once listen to John!" Mycroft screamed. It wouldn't have mattered if Sherlock could hear him.

"There's a time to die John."

"Well it's not now! You said you were in touch with Mycroft. Get him to get in a helicopter or something!"

"I lied, John. He would never have helped me. I don't think there was ever a time he would have."

"That's not true!" Mycroft cried.

"You never even asked him?"

I knew it was useless. I'm not sorry to go this way. I'm just sorry for what you and your family have to go through."

"You are my family, Sherlock. You'll laugh at me for saying this, but you're my brother."

Sherlock didn't laugh. He drew in a pained breath before answering "And you're mine."

That was when both John and Mycroft knew it was nearly over, or Sherlock would never have said that. He dropped the phone and went limp. Mycroft screamed his name and tried to grab him, but it was no use. A terrible thought occurred to him.

"Spirit, tell me it's not already too late! Tell me this future has not already happened. He can't die like this!" Any logic or reason, and need to distance himself from feeling, was forgotten. All he knew was he needed to save his brother. "I'm not the man I was! I'm not the man I was!"

His eyes were closed as he reached for his brother, and felt something solid...

AN: Thank you again Psay and iamsherlocked for your kind reviews:)


	5. Redemption

"I'm not the man I was! I'm not the man I was!" He screamed again. His screams were interrupted by knocking. He opened his eyes, and found he was back in his own room. It was daylight, and the solid mass in his arms was only a pillow, not the body of his little brother. The knocking was Anthea, bringing him his morning tea.

"Sir? I heard you yelling. Is everything all right?"

Mycroft took a few deep breaths to steady himself. "What day is it?"

"What day?" Anthea looked a bit worried. "It's Christmas day of course."

"Christmas day? Then I haven't missed it!" The absolute wonder of it was overwhelming. Sherlock was alive, and on his way with the Watsons to their parents' home right now. There was still time to set things right. He couldn't change the past and what had happened with Alistair. The present, though, was still his, and the future could be changed. "The spirits must have done it all in one night. But then, they can do anything, can't they? Of course they can!"

Mycroft sprang up from the bed, laughing like a madman.

"Are you quite yourself sir?" Anthea's anxiety was growing.

"What? I don't know. No, I don't think so. I hope not!" He continued to laugh. "The shadow of what would be can still be dispelled. And it will be! I know it will be!" He started sprinting around his home, seeing the chair where the Ghost of Christmas Present had sat, and the window where Allistair had appeared. "Thank you Allistair! I have learned. I promise I've changed. It isn't too late to prove that."

By now Anthea was backing away slowly. Another fit of laughter overcame Mycroft as he sat back down on his bed.

"Amazing. I wake up and I don't know what day of the month it is, or how long I've been among the spirits. I don't know anything. I never did know anything." He nodded enthusiastically at his own newfound wisdom. "But now I know that I never knew anything!"

He collected himself enough to look at Anthea, and realized her eyes were darting around, looking for something handy to hit him over the head with.

"I promise I haven't gone mad," He told her calmly, but with a warmer smile than anyone had seen on his face in years. Most people didn't know he could smile that way. "Now, I have some instructions for you. First, I want you to arrange a car to take me to my parents. Then I want you to get on a plane. You'll be gone for a week."

"Yes, sir." She looked reassured that he hadn't completely lost his senses. "And where am I going?"

"Your mother lives in America. New York, I believe? Have the plane take you there as quickly as possible. Given the time difference, you will still have part of Christmas with her."

"Sir?" She stared at him open mouthed. "You're letting me go see my mother for Christmas?"

He nodded. 'And while you're there, if you and her are both willing, make a list of anything she'll need for her to come here so you can stay together. I'll provide for any medical care and equipment she'll need right at home."

He was almost knocked backwards as Anthea hugged him.

"Thank you, sir!"

He smiled. "Now you hurry and do as I said before I have you fired for disobedience." Of course, he didn't mean it, and she knew that. It warmed the heart he'd forgotten he had to see her so happy.

He hurried to get dressed, making plans to stop and pick up gifts on the way. He was overjoyed the entire trip, but felt nervous when he approached the door. The last words Sherlock had spoken to him were to stay away. Had he meant them? What would he do if it was too late after all, if their relationship was beyond repair?

He could hear violin music coming from within. Sherlock was playing a selection of their parent's favorites. He listened a while as Sherlock took a few requests. The music gave him courage, and he knocked at the door. The music stopped abruptly as Sherlock answered it. Mycroft never thought he'd see such a surprised look on Sherlock's face.

"Mycroft?" The surprise changed to confusion, than coldness. Then Sherlock's expression softened when he saw the regret on Mycroft's face.

"Can you forgive your pigheaded older brother? I'm so sorry, Sherlock, for how I've acted."

At that, Sherlock's eyes darted over him, trying to deduce if Mycroft was trying to pull some trick. Mycroft could tell the exact moment when that possibility was ruled out and Sherlock started to wonder if he'd gone insane. Mycroft let out a soft chuckle.

"I haven't lost my senses, brother. I've come to them. And I would like to be part of this Christmas, if you'll let me."

One more scan told the detective all he needed to know. Then something happened that had never happened before. Sherlock pulled Mycroft into a hug and literally pulled him inside.

"None of you will guess who's here."

Everyone looked shocked, especially their parents. Their mother's mouth was even slightly opened.

"Don't look like you've just seen a ghost, Mother." Mycroft smiled at his own joke. It took her half a second to have her arms around him. Apparently this was a day to get lots of hugs.

Soon his gifts were brought in from the car and added to the others beneath the tree. He hadn't expected there would be gifts waiting for him, but there were. The others were ready in case he changed his mind, even though they had no reason to hope he would. He'd made it before any were opened, and in time for dinner. Sherlock wordlessly took a seat between Mycroft and John, his two brothers. Mycroft was enjoying he feeling of being part of this family so much he was wondering why he'd ever hated Christmas. It was only after dinner that he bothered to think he'd eaten more than he should have, and he expected a fat joke from Sherlock. His little brother only passed him a mince pie. That simple act spoke volumes about how much Sherlock had sincerely wanted him there.

"You know, I was remembering how you used to fling your dinner at me when you were little. I never did get payback, and I can't remember us ever having a snowball fight," Mycroft said playfully. Sherlock looked alarmed.

"John? I think you'd better examine him."

John already had his medical bag out and was questioning him.

"Have you had any falls recently?"

"I'm fine. I mean it," Mycroft had to calm them. "In fact I've never felt so good."

"Then," Sherlock grinned, "I hope you like being cold and wet."

For the next hour or so, it was like everyone was children again. Mycroft ended up looking like a snowman, but he was honestly having the time of his life. Things quieted down, and they finished the night watching an old Christmas movie. Mycroft and Sherlock snuck out for a smoke, but Mrs. Holmes was so happy to see them getting along she never complained.

"Nobody put anything in the punch this year. What's gotten into you today?" Sherlock asked, curious but not suspicious.

"Christmas?" Mycroft offered. "And, I want you to know something. I don't care if it's something as simple as coming for Christmas or a question of life and death, I will be there for you from now on."

"Careful, brother." Sherlock smirked. "I may take advantage of that."

Mycroft smiled back. "I'm counting on it, little brother."

From that day on, Mycroft and Sherlock were truly brothers. That doesn't mean they never drove each other to the brink of insanity again. They would hardly have been brothers if they didn't. But after that Christmas they always made sure the other knew they really did love them.

The day did come, as Mycroft had known it would, when Mary's enemies did find her and threatened the new life and new family she had. However, Mycroft was prepared, and Sherlock came to him when he knew it was more than he could handle alone. Together, they faced the problem the way they did every problem from then on, and life continued in the best way possible for everyone. And it was often said, if anyone alive knew the meaning of Christmas and how to celebrate it, it was Mycroft Holmes.

AN: A belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to my readers. Thank you again to my reviewers, especially PSay who has reviewed every chapter with great kindness. Your reviews mean so much. And Extra thanks to my Beta, editor, and best friend Danielle. As Sherlock would say, 'I'd be lost without my Editor." If you've enjoyed this, I'm working on a fic telling his whole life story next, and will get back to the Doctor Who fic I have in progress. More to come.


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